Date: Thu, 26 Jan 2012 14:46:27 -0800 (PST)
From: Macout Mann
Subject: Before "Dont ask, don't tell"
This is a work of fiction containing explicit sexual activity between
males. If such is offensive to you, or if you are below the age where
reading such material is permittted where you live, please read no further.
BEFORE "DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL"
by Macout Mann
Preface
In 2011, homosexuals were for the first time allowed to openly serve in the
United States Armed Forces. Prior to that time a policy, known as "Don't
ask, don't tell," had been in force. Adopted in the early days of the
Clinton Administration in the 1990s, this policy, in theory at least,
allowed homosexuals to serve as long as they didn't declare their
orientation, and prohibited others from inquiring about a service member's
sexual preferences. Thus, the previous policy prohibiting any homosexual
from serving in the American military was supposedly relaxed. I say
"supposedly," because there continued to be discrimination, if not outright
witch hunts, against homosexuals. Many gays and lesbians were dismissed
from the services for "violating "Don't ask, don't tell," including many
Arabic speakers needed for intellegence work during the Iraq and Afganistan
wars. And these dismissals were often the result of the services not
following the policy, as they were expected to do.
Of course, there have always been gay members of the U. S. military
services, and this is a story about a gay navy man in the era before "Don't
ask, don't tell." It is based on actual events that occurred during and
immediately after the Korean conflict. The military events depicted are
all factual, based on recollections of people who were there. The
characters depicted are composites, and are not intended to represent any
particular persons. The sexual events as depicted are fictional, but
similar events did occur during this period.
Please give me your reaction to each chapter. Your input is vital to
making subsequent chapters more meaningful. Contact me at
macoutmann@yahoo.com.
Chapter 1
His name's Morgan Bowen. He's always hated it. He'd wanted a nickname
ever since he was a tot, but he's always been "Morgan Bowen." And back in
1952, he became "Ensign Morgan Bowen."
Not that he wanted to. It was the lesser of evils. He sure as hell didn't
want to be "Private Morgan Bowen." And that was the alternative.
During the Vietnam War, to stay out of service you had to win a lottery.
Korea, however, gave us the precursor of "No Child Left Behind," or in the
case of the draft, "Best Children Left Behind." You had to take a
standardized test to determine if you were bright enough to stay out of the
service.
Now, Morgan was a good test taker. Aced the SAT. But the day the
stay-out-of-the-draft test was given, he was in a bad mood, had a hangover,
and generally thought "what the fuck?" So, despite the fact that he was a
senior at that school in New Haven that begins with a "Y," he became
super-eligible to be drafted even before the ink on his senior thesis had
dried.
So he sought help from ONOP, the Office of Naval Officer Procurement. The
test it gave was a whole lot easier. For example, one of the "yes/no"
questions was "Homosexual tendencies?" Yeah, check "yes" and be sure to
pass the test!
ONOP did decide that he was fit to become an officer in the Naval Reserve
and assigned him a reporting date to the Naval School, Officer Candidate,
Newport, Rhode Island. Unfortunately, before the date arrived, he received
his draft notice and was to report for induction before he was to go to
Newport. The Navy fortunately agreed to order him to active duty
immediately, which gave him the opportunity to scrub heads (johns/latrines)
at the OCS barracks for two weeks before his classes began and also gave
him two weeks seniority in the navy ranking system, and a lowdown on how
the next sixteen weeks of his life would work.
He also slept with "ship's company" in the regular enlisted barracks and
discovered that he wasn`t the only guy in the navy that liked to mess
around. There was a Quartermaster, Second Class that loved his hard dick
and gave it a workout every night. The QM didn't seem to be concerned that
the two of them might be discovered by their mates. He did warn Morgan to
stay totally straight when he got into the OCS barracks, though. The brass
would be checking for "homosexual tendencies." Morgan knew he could do
that, because there would be some weekend liberty, and he'd been to Boston
before.
When the rest of the OCS class arrived, he was sworn in for a second time
and got an "OC" patch sewn above the seaman recruit stripe on his "coat of
navy blue." He was also amazed to discover that his two weeks of prior
service earned him the post of Section Leader in his company. So he could
parade around yelling "ten-SHUN!" and "fard-MARCH," despite the fact that
he knew absolutely nothing about close-order-drill.
Fortunately, the newly-hatched Company Commander gave him a short course in
marching and yelling, so he didn't make a complete fool of himself. The
Company Commander was one of the candidates who'd been chosen out of the
fleet, but he was also the son of an army brigadier who grew up in Hawaii,
was a surfer, and wanted to be a frogman. Frogmen were the ancestors of
today's Navy Seals. The Battalion Commander was also out of the fleet, a
really bright first class petty officer who was destined to become flag
lieutenant to a four star admiral
By and large the class was a motley crew of new college graduates, who
didn't want to be drafted. Physically they ranged from good-looking,
well-built, athletic types like Morgan, to two or three guys with spindly
arms and what the navy called a "slight" build, who needed to be careful
not to flip their wrists too often. As the weeks passed, Morgan didn't
notice a major campaign against "homosexual tendencies," however. In fact,
during the mandatory VD film shown about midway through the course, there
was a roar of laughter but no effort to find out who the obvious faggot
was, when a feminine voice screamed "O gawwwwd," when a dick dripping from
gonorrhea flashed full-screen.
By and large, OCS was Boot Camp Lite. Everyone marched from place to
place, but there was very little physical exercise, and a lot of classwork.
Morgan made several friends, one a classmate from Yale, Paschal Willingham.
Morgan noted that even he had a nickname, "Pas." They had had practically
nothing to do with each other before OCS, of course. Pas was from a First
Family of Virginia, prep school at Andover, Skull and Bones at Yale, not
the sort that Morgan had a lot in common with. Morgan was the son of a
Cincinatti manufacturer who'd been to public schools. Well-off enough, but
not "old money." But still, in the egalitarian atmosphere of OCS, well,
Yalee's stuck together. They were the only two men from Yale in the entire
class, so they sort of naturally became mess-mates. They had a lot more in
common than they might have thought before.
Pas was also one of the few recruits that had a car. Morgan had gone with
him to get a base sticker for it. When Pas handed over the insurance
policy he had to show, the seaman behind the counter pactically had a
stroke when he saw it insured eight family vehicles. He called several of
his mates over to look at the document, and said "Damn! This must be one
rich motherfucker!"
Pas couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. Didn't every family
have all their cars on one insurance policy? Morgan had to explain that
yes, but most families only had one or two cars at most. Pas had never
thought of that. "The different world of the super-rich," Morgan thought.
The first weekend they had liberty, most of Morgan's friends were staying
in Newport. Morgan and Pas talked about "hitting the beach" together, but
Pas decided to visit a girl he knew at Brown, which was just down the road
at Providence. So Morgan chose to take off for Boston by himself.
In Boston, Morgan headed straight for Scully Square. Years later, Scully
would get a reputation as a sex trade center. But in the fifties, while
you could find what you were looking for, if you knew what to look for, the
area also had a number of good restaurants and was a well-known tourist
destination. Morgan knew what to look for, or to put it more specifically,
he knew how to be looked for. And although he had to wear his white, Navy
boxers on base, on liberty his bell-bottoms had nothing underneath but skin
and showed off his bubble butt just right. He didn't have to stroll around
the square more than twice before he heard a voice say "Hi, sailor."
"Hi...." Morgan replied with just the right amount of tentativeness in his
voice.
He stared into the eyes of a guy about thirty, blue blazer, rep tie,
charcoal grey pants. His regular features framed a tidy moustache that
matched the almost golden blonde of his hair. "Taking in the sights?" he
asked. "So am I."
"Yes," Morgan said. "My first liberty, actually."
"Well, then," his new companion offered, "how about a drink?"
"I've never turned one down," Morgan laughed.
They stepped into a nearby cafe and sat at a window table. "Chivas Regal
and soda," Morgan's new friend told the waiter.
"Make mine on the rocks," he said. Then to his companion he said, "I'm
Morgan Bowen."
Taking Morgan's proffered hand, the other man replied, "Stephen Matthews,
but call me 'Steve.' Good to meet you, Morgan."
Their drinks were served and they chatted amiably about nothing in
particular. Stephen was very urbane and had obviously been around. Morgan
didn't think Harvard or Yale. Dartmouth, maybe. They were on their second
Scotch, when Stephen asked what Morgan's plans were. Learning that Morgan
didn't really have any, he volunteered that he didn't either. Then said
that he had a hotel room not far away that Morgan was welcome to share.
They could have dinner somewhere and see what they could get into.
Precisely what Morgan had in mind. He let his hand rest lightly on his
crotch as he agreed to the offer.
The hotel wasn't a Ritz Carleton or a Somerset, but it was nice enough.
When they reached Steve's room, though, hanging on the door was a pair of
dress blues with the two stripes of a Navy Lieutenant on them, and a staff
insignia that Morgan didn't recognize. "Holy Shit!" he thought.
Steve laughed and said, "Don't worry, Morgan. We're both interested in the
same thing." And he quickly palmed Morgan's jewels through the flannel of
his bell bottoms.
"Feels good," Morgan admitted. "But what the hell are you? Not a chaplain
or a doc or supply."
"I'm a JAG," Steve said. "Staff ComDesLant. Not too far from OCS."
"Shit," Morgan replied, "a damned navy lawyer that's goanna fuck me and
then court martial my ass."
"No. You're going to fuck me, and then we're going to forget it ever
happened. But first, cocktails and dinner."
A bucket of ice and glasses were already on a nearby table along with a
bottle of Scotch. So they sat down for another leisurely drink and learned
more about each other.
Morgan was wrong about Dartmouth. Steve grew up in New Hampshire, but went
to William and Mary for undergraduate school and to the Columbia Law
School. Had clerked for Justice Hugo Black, and would liked to have joined
a high-powered Washington law firm, but was advised to "do his duty for his
country." So, he'd be in Newport for two more years, then into the
reserves and onto Washington. He said he chose William and Mary, because
he'd loved Colonial Williamsburg when the family had vacationed there, and
the student body was mostly male with just enough coeds to keep the wild
straight boys happy. And he'd guessed correctly when he'd visited the
campus that there would be enough wild gay boys to keep him happy.
Morgan told Steve about growing up in the Midwest. He'd always been a
maverick. Was a problem as a teenager. Ran over from Cinci to Newport,
Kentucky to raise hell whenever he could. Would have been just as happy at
Ohio State as Yale, but his dad wanted him to be an ivy-leaguer, so he
became one.
They had dinner at a small French restaurant near Symphony Hall that both
had been to before, and back at the hotel they wasted no time in getting
into what they'd both come to Boston to do. Steve removed his blazer and
tie, and then removed Morgan's kerchief and jumper. His sparkly white t
shirt clung to his torso, and Steve nibbled his nipples through the cotton
fabric, before lifting it over his head.
"Nice body," Steve murmured.
"I try to stay in shape," Morgan answered. He removed Steve's shirt,
leaving them both bare from the waist up. Steve didn't have the bod that
Morgan did, but his was nothing to be ashamed of. Morgan ran his hands
over Steve's and up and down his hairy back.
"You're goanna wish you had these thirteen buttons back when you become an
officer," Steve said, as he methodically unbuttoned Morgan's bell bottoms
to reveal his thick 9 inches, now freed from its flannel prison. "Man,
what a piece of meat. That I gotta have. Right now." He pushed Morgan
onto the bed, and without bothering to remove his grey trousers, took
Morgan's throbbing tool into his hungry mouth.
Morgan hadn't had lips on his dick since he'd lain with the quartermaster
before OCS started, so the feeling was electric. "Yes," he cried, "suck
me. Suck me, man!"
And did he? Steve rammed his nose into Morgan's pubes, practically gagging
on his knob as it reached the back of his throat. Steve savored the taste
of his precum as it dripped from his piss slit. Steve twisted his head to
give Morgan the sensation of having each surface of his dick pleasured by
every part of Steve's mouth. Morgan rocked with passion as he dumped
strand after strand of cum down Steve's willing throat.
They lay on the bed for several minutes to get their breaths. Then Morgan
reached for Steve's belt and finally stripped him. Steve's dick was not
the size of his, but it was big enough. Morgan took it in his mouth and
returned the favor he'd received from Steve as best he could. Steve held
out for longer than Morgan had, but when he shot his load it was more than
Morgan could swallow. Rivulets of cum ran down his chin, which Steve
eagerly licked off Morgan's face.
"That was great," Steve told the younger man, "but like I said, I want you
to fuck me. I want it hard and raw. And I know you can do it."
"On your back or on your stomach?" Morgan asked.
"I want to see your face," was the reply. Then, "There's some k.y. in my
bag over there."
Steve rolled onto his back and lifted his legs. Morgan squirted lube on
his ass, but when he inserted his greasy fingers into the other man's hole,
he decided that a whole lot of preparation wouldn't be necessary. He
smeared his dick with k.y. and placed the knob against Steve's sphincter.
"Give it to me," Steve panted. Morgan entered his anus.
"Yeah.....goddam.....fuck me!" he cried.
He'd said he wanted it hard and raw, so Morgan rammed his prong all the way
up his waiting ass and felt his muscles clamp his tube in response. He
repeatedly pulled almost all the way out and pounded his gut back against
Steve's tail bone and slapped his balls against his ass cheeks. Both men
were in a frenzy of raw sex, Morgan realizing that he could go as long as
he felt like it, Steve wanting Morgan to use every ounce of his animal
energy to satisfy his craving.
Steve gazed into Morgan's wild-man face, as he satisfied his dick's desire.
Morgan watched Steve's expressions of ecstasy, as he felt his ass filled
over and over again. It was almost half an hour before Morgan collapsed on
Steve's sated body and released another dose of cum into his grateful
partner. They both fell asleep with Morgan's softening dick still inside
Steve's hole.
They awoke completely rested and fulfilled. They showered together, and
afterward they gave each other more head. They dressed, went to breakfast,
and prepared for the journey back to Newport. The liberty had been
everything Morgan had hoped it would be.
On the train to Providence they sat opposite each other and chatted as
though they'd never seen each other before. The magnamous officer taking
an interest in a much younger enlisted man. The officer usually referring
to the enlisted man as "son."
Stephen had left his car in the train station's lot, however, and he did
offer a lift to the young OCSR. That would save Morgan the boring bus ride
to Newport. Now their conversation was much more intimate, until they
reached the OCS gate. Morgan jumped out, said "Thank you, Mr. Matthews,"
loud enough for the sentry to hear, and saluted smartly.
Many thanks to s.p. for his technical assistance.
Copyright 2011 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.